Erik attempts to lace his daughter's shoes, carefully dodging her plump baby feet's excited kicking. Behind him, he can hear Magda chuckling. "Anya, darling, you need to stop doing that. Papa can't tie your shoes if he keeps getting a foot in his stomach." Anya is still too little to understand much of what her mother is saying, so Erik settles for forcibly grabbing each foot and holding it still. When he's finished, he looks up at his wife, who's still giggling like a schoolgirl. "When you're finished laughing at me, perhaps we ought to head out?" "If we waited until I'd finished laughing at you before doing anything, we'd never get anything done." "I'm that ridiculous?" "I'd prefer to say amusing. It's a bit less offensive." Erik stoops, then swings Anya up to rest on his shoulders. He ought to do this when they're already outside, so she doesn't have to duck the door ledges on the way out of their rented rooms, but she enjoys doing so. Above his head, he can hear her laughing. She and Magda have the same laugh, delicate little bell tones that eventually trickle into full-blown, hearty belly laughter. Outside, the slightest dusting of snow coats the little town's streets. Magda shivers in her thin, patch-enforced coat, drawing her woolen scarf closer about her hair. Erik is colder too. When he works construction jobs, action keeps his blood warm, but here on his day off his double layer of sweaters doesn't shelter him from the wind as much as he would like. Anya alone seems not to notice the cold, sniffing excitedly at the winter wind. Most of the town is ensconced in church right now. The three of them weave their way down the unusually quiet main street, pointing out displays in shops to their daughter. Many of the stores are shuttered on Sunday mornings, but that doesn't stop them from looking. In one toy stall, wooden jesters, hung like marionettes from strings, bob up and down, arms waving. Anya shouts in excitement. "Clowns! Clowns! Put down, Papa," she orders him. He swings her down to a better viewing level, holding her in his arms at the same height of the puppets' heads. She presses her nose against the glass, wincing slightly at the cold. Magda rests her head against his shoulder. Her eyes linger on a row of pretty dolls, their porcelain faces as white as the snow outside, plump china cheeks painted rose pink. Golden ringlets lie coiled on their shoulders. The craftsmanship is lovely, but the dolls don't look like either his wife or his daughter, with their olive skin and stick-straight hair. He jerks back abruptly, pulling Anya away from the glass. She squeals in discontent, but he tucks her close to his chest, and soon enough she snuggles into him, clown puppets forgotten. Magda glances up at him, her eyes sad. "Let's move on," she says quietly.